


wrong in the dark

by ficklish



Series: klance week 2017 [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altean Lance (Voltron), Alternate Universe, Galra Keith (Voltron), Klance Week 2017: Free Will vs Fate, M/M, background shayllura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10933755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficklish/pseuds/ficklish
Summary: All his life, Lance has been groomed to be one half of a bridge between two alien races — a merging of families that will bring about an end to a bitter centuries-old feud. He’s carried this weight upon his shoulders with a grace he feels he can and should be proud of, considering he never asked for such a heavy responsibility. He never asked for his life to be mapped out in such bold, rigid lines that stretch into a future he can see all too clearly: when he reaches maturity, he’ll be bound to the Crown Prince of the Galra empire for the rest of their lives.And so he lets himself be swept away by the tides of fate — save for for one night, the night before the bonding ceremony, when he sneaks out and has an encounter with a stranger that threatens to upend him from the path he was meant to walk.





	wrong in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> i'm bad at keeping track of things so i only found out about klance week a day into the week and this was meant to be a really short thing but man, inspiration hit me like a freight train.
> 
> also, this is unbeta-ed and i'm really sorry if this reads like it was written at 3am, because it was (and now i desperately need sleep). 
> 
> title is from 'war of hearts' by ruelle. 
> 
> comments are greatly appreciated!

All his life, Lance has been groomed to be one half of a bridge between two alien races — a merging of families that will bring about an end to a bitter centuries-old feud. He’s carried this weight upon his shoulders with a grace he feels he can and should be proud of, considering he never asked for such a heavy responsibility. He never asked for his life to be mapped out in such bold, rigid lines that stretch into a future he can see all too clearly: when he reaches maturity, he’ll be bound to the Crown Prince of the Galra empire for the rest of their lives.

He knows he’s no more than a peace offering, an expandable loophole that will allow the Altean Princess a chance at freedom, a chance at a life where her choices aren’t made for her. He sees it in the way Allura looks at him, pity bright in her large blue eyes despite how she tries to hide it, and it makes it hard to hold her gaze. But even if the decision hadn’t been made for him when he was just a child, even if he’d been granted a choice, he’d choose this fate all over again if it means allowing Allura the opportunity to choose whom she’ll be bound to for the rest of eternity. His resolve is further strengthened by the way Allura’s gaze softens and trails after Shay, a visiting noblewoman from the Balmera, and how he’s often caught Shay sneaking furtive glances of her own at the Princess.

Lance is not part of the royal family, strictly speaking. He’s a cousin, twice removed, and the only sign of his connection to the royal family are the faint markings along the high points of his cheeks, a much duller blue than the Princess’, his blood more diluted than hers. But he’s royal enough, and with some magic and makeup, they’ll make him look like a true born Altean Prince on the day of the ceremony.

And yet, despite his resolve, Lance can’t help but feel bitter. He grew up in a huge family, one that encouraged him to dream and to dream big. His parents would say to shoot for the moons and never settle for anything less, and if he happened to land amongst the stars, it didn’t mean that he’d failed, only that he was amongst the stars now, and that much closer to the moons. His mother would always add though, that sometimes people find what they’re looking for in places they never thought to look for it; “so don’t miss the stars for the moons either,” she’d say, brushing his hair out of his face.

And so dream Lance did.

He’d grown up on stories of how his parents met and fell in love. His older sister still danced around the house with her wife like they had on the night his sister introduced her to the family, the night when a much younger Lance had snuck out of his room and onto the balustrade to spy on them. Call him a hopeless romantic, but when he thought of love, he never pictured a future already set in stone.

His parents tried to protest the ruling, but the situation was such that they walked a fine line between wanting the best for Lance — wanting him to have a choice — and treason. Lance waved their worries away, plastered a smile on his face for their benefit, and let himself be swept away by the tides of fate.

Save for one night, the night before the bonding ceremony.

Lance sneaks out of the castle with Allura’s help, her hands firm yet gentle when they push a bayard into his hand.

“Lance, this isn’t what I want for you, you know I’d—”

“I know,” Lance says, and he means it. The purity of their blood never stood in the way of their friendship, and he knows Allura would take his place in a heartbeat. It’s why he smiles at her, warm and genuine, and takes her hand in his. “And I would choose this all over again.”

She squeezes his hand. “If you want to run away, I won’t hold it against you. I’ll help—”

Again, he doesn’t let her finish. It’s not the first time Allura has suggested running away, but tonight, the temptation grows stronger with each tick, becoming a living thing that eats at Lance’s already wavering resolve. Lance cannot afford a lapse in judgement, not now.

“I couldn’t do that to my family, or you. I just… I just need some air, is all. I’ll be back before the ceremony.” He squeezes back then lets go of her hand, slipping into the shadows cast by the towering walls of the castle.

* * *

The bar is packed and the press of bodies provides a strange comfort. He’d grown up in a modest house, full to bursting with three generations of his family so Lance is used to having barely enough room to himself. He eases through the throng of people with grace borne from experience navigating his home’s narrow corridors till he’s pressed flush against the counter.

He keeps his cowl up even though he’s disguised himself, making full use of the Altean’s characteristic ability. His powers aren’t as strong as the royal family’s though, and he only manages to dull the markings on his cheeks to near invisible, and turn his white hair to a dark shade of brown. Still, no one affords him a second glance, and he feels his nerves settle somewhat as he orders a drink.

As he waits for his order, movement in his periphery draws his attention. A newcomer slips deftly through the crowd, but there’s an edge to their movements that broadcasts their unease. Lance can tell that the stranger doesn’t like crowds, and the jut of their elbow under their cloak betrays a concealed weapon and the readiness to use it should the need arise. Intrigued despite himself, Lance places a few coins on the counter as payment for his drink and follows after the stranger.

The stranger stalks past the bar and down a dimly lit hallway, the lights hissing and flickering in protest, bulbs long overdue for a replacement. Lance trails after them, footfalls silent, and watches as the stranger enters a door at the end of the hallway.

He waits a few seconds before he slips past the door—

And is suddenly thrown against the wall, a blade flashing at his throat. His cowl slips off his head and pools around the back of his neck.

“Why are you following me?” The stranger demands in a low growl that only serves to pique Lance’s interest.

“You noticed,” is all Lance can think to say in his surprise.

“Yes,” the stranger says, voice betraying their annoyance. “So give me one good reason not to slit your throat.” The blade presses harder against Lance’s neck; the stranger clearly means business. Lance figures he should probably come clean unless he wants to die.  

“I wasn’t following you—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Lance feels the blade nick his skin and flinches.

“Look, I’m not lying! I really wasn’t following you, I mean I was, but not _you_ specifically, if that makes sense. You were just sneaking around and I got curious, is all.” He shrugs weakly and offers the stranger a smile he hopes conveys his innocence.

The stranger stares at him, gaze shrouded under their hood but the little light afforded by the straining bulbs allows Lance to see that the stranger’s eyes are purple.

Pretty, is his first thought. His second is that the stranger still has the blade against his throat. A few ticks pass by in uncomfortable silence — uncomfortable because Lance usually doesn’t enjoy being held at knife point.

Finally, the stranger steps back and slips their knife back under their cloak.

“Geez, paranoid much,” Lance says before he can think better of it, but the stranger ignores him in favour of walking down the corridor. Lance jogs after them.

“Don’t I at least get the honour of knowing the name of the person who pinned me to a wall?”

“So you can report me to the authorities?” Lance is surprised the stranger answered him at all, and presses on, undeterred.

“Well, they can’t do much without a description.” A beat of silence passes by as they descend a flight of stairs. “I’m Lance, by the way, in case you wanted to know.”

“Are you in the habit of following strangers around, Lance?” the stranger says.

“Just the ones who hide big knifes,” he says around a smile and is rewarded when the stranger makes a noise somewhere between a choke and a snort. “So, where are we going?”

“There is no _we_. I am going to… a fight club.”

“A what now?”

“You’ll see, I guess,” and Lance isn’t sure, but he thinks the stranger sounded just a tad smug just then. Before he can ask any more questions, they arrive at a hulking metal door, dulled with age but solid as a Balmeran crystal. The stranger knocks a sequence of beats into the metal and a flap slides open at eye level.

“Password,” a rasping voice, like the rush of waves over rocks, says as three pairs of pure white eyes peer at them through the opening.

This time the stranger knocks another more complicated sequence into the door. A moment later, the heavy door swings open with barely a sound, and the gatekeeper in standing there, four arms akimbo and three pairs of white eyes fixed on Lance.

“He’s with me,” the stranger says and the gatekeeper nods, steps aside to let them pass.

“Aww, and you said there wasn’t a _we_.” Lance says, beaming at the stranger.

“There isn’t, but I can’t just leave you standing out there.”

“Well, I mean you could have—”

“I should have. And the more you talk, the more I regret not doing that.”

“That’s rude…” Lance trails off, finally taking notice of their surroundings as they step deeper into a cavernous hall. The ceiling is so high above them that the strobe lights affixed at intervals along the towering walls barely illuminate the deathly sharp tips of black stalactites. Around the room, steps have been cut into the walls that serve as seating for a vast array of spectators, and Lance can’t tell if there’s less people here than in the bar or if there’s the same number of people in a much larger space. And at the very centre of the room, no doubt the focal point of attention for the spectators as they lean forward in their seats, an eager hush charged with anticipation falling over them, is an arena — a large flat ground of shifting black sand, broken by random juts of jagged stalagmites.

There were currently two beings in the arena. A lumbering giant of an alien moving with startling grace for a being of their size and a small three legged amphibian who was looking kind of shrivelled up; Lance feels parched just looking at them.

“Woah,” he breaths, watching as the two in the arena charge at each other. He feels the stranger’s eyes on him, but he can’t bear to tear his gaze from the match.

Lance leans forward on his toes, expecting the giant to crush the smaller amphibious being, and is torn between looking away from the no doubt brutal scene about to unfold and the pure grace and strength with which the beings carried themselves. He can’t hold back a gasp when, in a surprising twist, the amphibious being darts around the giant’s ankles and, evading the giant’s grasping hands, topples the larger being. Wasting no time, the amphibious being proceeds to sink their teeth into the giant’s leg, and the giant stops moving altogether, save for the faint rise and fall of their chest.

“They’re not dead, right?” Lance says, his heart racing in his chest.

The stranger snorts. “No, killing your opponent is against the rules here.”

“Huh.” He peeks at the stranger from the corner of his eyes. “So, are you here to watch, or do you take part in…” He gestures vaguely to the arena, where a single attendant is currently levitating the fallen giant off to the side into what he hopes in a medical tent.

“I take part sometimes.”

“Can I take part?”

The stranger turns sharply in his direction, and Lance can’t see their expression under their hood but he imagines the stranger is raising a brow at him — assuming the stranger had brows. “You really want to?”

“Depends. Can I choose my opponent?”

“Yeah, if you want. If not, they’ll assign one to you.”

“So…I could fight you, then, if I wanted?” He smirks at the stranger.

“You’re ten years too early to be challenging me,” and now Lance knows he’s not mistaking the stranger’s smug tone.

Lance shrugs. “Sounds like you’re scared to accept the challenge.”

“I’m not scared,” the stranger snaps, and Lance has to smother his smile because they fell so easily for his bait.

“Prove it, then.”

“Fine, but don’t complain when I kick your ass.” With that, the stranger stalks off to a counter shoved into the corner of the room, probably scheduling their match.

Lance watches as another attendant approaches the arena, hands raised before them. The sand begins to shift, and the mounds created by the previous match flatten into relatively even ground. He’s so distracted he doesn’t notice when the stranger approaches.

“Here,” the stranger says, tossing him a bracelet and Lance turns to catch it, only to gape at the person standing before him. The bracelet clatters at his feet.

“Um…” He says, intelligently.

The stranger raises a brow — he has brows, and they’re beautiful, if eyebrows could be considered beautiful — and smirks at him. “What, losing your nerve already?”

“N..No!” Lance says, finding his voice. He ducks down to pick up the bracelet, and tries to collect his scattered thoughts. In the time between the stranger leaving Lance side to register their match and tossing the bracelet at Lance, he’d removed his hood and Lance is certain that the stranger did this on purpose in an attempt to intimidate him.

And it’s working because the stranger is almost scarily attractive. Purple eyes peer at him quizzically, framed by short inky lashes and thick black brows. Shoulder length jet black hair falls over the stranger’s face, a sharp contrast to his light-coloured skin, curling outwards along his collarbones. Lance has the inexplicable urge to thread his fingers through the stranger’s hair, chasing the impulse of an errant thought that wonders if it feels as soft as it looks.

Instead, Lance snaps his gaze away from the stranger’s face and fiddles with the bracelet to keep his hands busy. “What um, what’s this?”

“Identification, sort of. People may bet on you during the match, and if you win, you can bring this back to the counter to collect your winnings.” A pause, and Lance can hear the smirk in the stranger’s voice, “ _If_ you win, of course.”

Lance meets the stranger’s stare head on; the stranger is no less attractive than before, but Lance’s competitive streak helps dull the effects of the stranger’s beauty somewhat. “Bring it.”

* * *

They’re called into the arena faster than Lance anticipated, and he feels the first trickle of nerves down his back. It’s offset by the adrenaline thrumming under his skin, making it near impossible for him to stand still as an attendant explains the rules to them. In short: weapons are allowed and no killing your opponent.

And then the attendant is gone, leaving him and the stranger alone in the arena. Lance had expected the black sand to be warm, hot even, but it’s surprisingly cold and slippery under the soles his shoes.

They’d both shed their cloaks, leaving the stranger in a tight black shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and muscular arms. It’s distracting, to say the least, but Lance has his eye on the prize — winning.

A hush falls over the crowd once again, the excited murmuring dying down as the attendant raises their hand and then snaps their fingers, the sound startlingly loud, signalling the beginning of the match.

Immediately, Lance hoists his bayard, now transformed into an energy rifle and shoots a blast in the stranger’s direction. The stranger ducks out of the way with ease and charges Lance.

Lance expected this, and he parries the stranger’s strike with his rifle, locking his arms and bracing against the impact. He manages to knock the stranger’s blade out of his hands, and takes a moment to grin in triumph, until his legs are swiped out from under him.

He hits the ground with a grunt, the sand cushioning his fall but scraping his palms raw.

“Never let your guard down.” The stranger smirks at him, blade once again in hand.

“Take your own advice,” Lance says, and then he’s flinging sand at the stranger’s face. He takes this chance to grab his fallen bayard and scramble to his feet.

“Dirty trick,” the stranger spits at him.

Lance shrugs, and fires off another pulse that the stranger narrowly avoids. “It’s not against the rules though.”

This goes on for a while, neither one of them willing to give ground, a continuous push-and-pull as each of them claims the upper hand for a sweet moment, only to have the other snatch it away in a heartbeat. It’s an odd match — a long-ranged weapon verses a short-ranged one, and in such close quarters with nothing but flat ground, neither one has a particular edge over the other. Even so, it’s exhilarating, and Lance loses track of the time, losing track of everything except the stranger as he cuts across the sand, movements agile and precise, almost feline in nature.

Lance is certain he’s grinning wildly, even as he evades the clean swipe of a blade along his dominant arm. It catches his wrists in a sharp sting, but the wound’s shallow and he darts out of the stranger’s reach, firing off another blast that scorches a patch of sand into smooth black glass.

Ironically, that ends up being his downfall.

As he jerks back to avoid another swipe, his foot skids along an uneven pane of glass and he crashes to the ground. His rifle slips from his grasp and before he can make a grab for it, the stranger is on top of him, pinning his arms to his sides.

“I win,” the stranger says around a grin. He’s breathing hard, they both are, shirts sticking to their bodies like second skin. Lance is momentarily distracted by the way the heave of the stranger’s chest causes a bead of sweat to trickle down his neck, soaking into the already damp collar of his shirt. He wonders what it’d be like to chase the bead of sweat with his mouth—

“Lance?”

Lance jerks his gaze back up to the stranger’s face. His hair sticks to his face in sweaty clumps and Lance thinks it’s unfair how he still manages to look good.

Lance clears his throat. “Remember how I said I got curious and followed you?”

“Yeah?” The stranger frowns. Lance can’t tell if he’s confused or suspicious. “Was it worth it?”

“Oh definitely, but I left my drink back there.”

There’s a pause, and the stranger’s frown smooths out, replaced by a tentative smile. It’s soft, and different from the challenging smirks from before and Lance feels his breath catch in his throat.

“Well then,” The stranger says, getting to his feet and offering Lance a hand. Lance tries not to think about how he kind of misses the stranger’s weight across his hips. “Why don’t you let me buy you another drink with the money you just helped me win?”

Lance grins. “I’d like that.”

* * *

After a brief towelling down, they make their way back up to the bar and, to Lance’s dismay, out into the streets.

“What about that drink you promised me?” He says, trying to sound casual and failing.

The stranger has his hood back up, but he turns and a streetlamp catches on his smile. “Not here, I know a better place. C’mon.”

He leads Lance round the corner into an alley banked by a dense thicket. Lance watches in open curiosity as the stranger sticks his hand in the foliage and parts the leaves to reveal a sleek, red hover bike.

“It’s beautiful,” Lance says. He reaches out on a whim, but stops himself, peering at the stranger for permission. The stranger nods, and Lance lets his fingers graze the shiny metal surface, stroking the seam along the supple leather seats. He’s still marvelling at the design when the stranger shoves a helmet into his hands.

“Are you going to keep stroking my bike or are you gonna get on?”

A burst of laughter falls from his mouth at what he suspects is an unintended innuendo. He waggles his brows at the stranger, “Aren’t we impatient.”

“Shut up and get on or I’ll change my mind about the drink.” Lance can’t see, but he’s certain the stranger’s face is red.

“Yes Sir,” he singsongs and straddles the bike as it comes to life beneath him. It emits a gentle purr that Lance can feel in his bones.

“Hold on,” the stranger says, and the purr turns into a low growl.

Lance doesn’t know if it’s the residual adrenaline pumping in his veins or the fact that the stranger can’t see his face from this angle, but he slides his arms around the stranger’s waist, slipping his chin onto the stranger’s shoulder. The stranger stiffens beneath him and for a moment, Lance thinks he’s made a mistake. He’s about to pull away and apologise when the stranger relaxes against him, his back warm against Lance’s chest. Lance wonders if he can feel Lance’s heart causing a rampage in his chest or if it’s drowned out by the roar of the hover bike as it accelerates into the night.

* * *

“So do I finally get to know the name of the guy who bought me a drink?” Lance says. They’re sitting in an open field atop a small hill. There’s a little shabby, hole in the wall — or rather, hole in the hill — bar at the base of the slope, and it’s where the stranger had ordered them both drinks: two tall glasses of bright purple liquid, set aflame around the rim and topped with a curly straw. Lance takes a sip and has to hold back a groan; the liquid is sweet and crisp, with a smokey aftertaste that compliments the cool evening breeze dragging its fingers through his hair.

“…It’s Keith.” The stranger — Keith — says, a small smile playing along the corners of his lips. They’ve both shed their cloaks once again, using them as makeshift mats as they sprawl in the bioluminescent grass. Keith brushes his fingers against a few blades of grass, and they light up in a blazing red before dimming into a burgundy.

“Keith,” Lance repeats, enjoying the feel of the name rolling off his tongue. Maybe it’s the chill that makes Keith flush, but Lance enjoys the view all the same, and if he’s caught starring unabashedly, he can always blame it on the alcohol in his system.

Keith clears his throat, flicks his gaze up to the sky. “You know I’m slightly worried about how easily you followed me into dark corridors, alleyways and now, secluded fields. You don’t even know me.”

“Aw, are you saying you care about me?”

“You’re missing the point.”

Lance chuckles and leans back on his hands, turning the grass around his palms an electrifying blue. “Relax, I don’t usually do…this. It’s just…” Keith watches him expectantly, and it’s Lance’s turn to look away. “I don’t know. There just wasn’t a moment when I felt that I couldn’t trust you. Is that weird?” 

“Probably,” Keith deadpans.

“Hey—”

“ _But,_ ” Keith cuts him off, scratching the back of his neck. Lance tracks the movement and notes how the tips of Keith’s ears are red. “I’m… happy you feel that way. I didn’t think my night would turn out like this. I just wanted to let off some steam, but this is… better, I think.”

Keith’s words are halting, but the sincerity in them makes Lance’s stomach do weird flips. Lance feels his cheeks grow hot, and he ducks his head to take another sip of his drink. The silence they lapse into is comfortable, fitting like steadying hands on shoulders, and it takes Lance awhile to find his voice.

“I came out tonight looking for… I honestly don’t know what I was looking for, really. Just— _Something_ I could hold on to for tomorrow and the days that follow, I guess?” He flops onto his back, taking care not to spill his drink. “Ugh I’m sorry, I know I’m not making sense.”

“No, I,” There’s a hint of something in Keith’s voice, an almost wistful quality that resonates sharply in Lance’s chest. “I think I know what you mean.”

Lance glances up at Keith, only to find Keith already looking down at him, and suddenly it feels like his centre of gravity has been thrown off balance, like he’s fallen into Keith’s orbit and he doesn’t know a way out. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t really want to know a way out.

It’s not a conscious decision to prop himself up on his elbows, at least, Lance doesn’t remember actively deciding to do so. And he doesn’t recall Keith lowering himself down over him, their lips now barely inches apart. Keith’s breath is sweet and warm against cheeks.

Lance is suddenly cold.

Just above Keith’s shoulder, two huge moons wink at them from behind the clouds. And Lance thinks he finally understands his mother’s words. “Don’t miss the stars for the moons,” she’d say, and Lance thinks that, perhaps, Keith could be his stars.

But he doesn’t get a chance to find out because he’s rolling out from under Keith and putting distance between them.

“Lance?” Keith says, and Lance can see the confusion on his face. “I’m sorry, did I—”

“No, Keith, it’s not you, I just.” Lance’s voice wavers. He’s never had his heart broken, but he thinks it must feel a lot like the sharp twisting in his chest. “I wish I could choose you.”

“Lance, what’s wrong?”

But Lance is already on his feet, his back to Keith. His eyes sting and his throat feels too tight, and he doesn’t want Keith to remember this side of him. “I’m sorry, I should go.” He grabs his cloak and starts walking down the hill, slowly at first, then faster as he blinks back tears.

“Wait! Lance, please just wait!” Keith catches up to him faster than Lance expected, his hand closes around Lance’s wrist in a gentle but firm hold. “Just…at least let me drop you off. It’s late.”

Lance swallows around the lump in his throat. “I can find my way back,” he says.

“I know,” Keith’s reply is soft, and Lance can hear the hurt hidden beneath the surface.

Against his better judgement, Lance nods, once.

They ride back in silence, and this time Lance clutches at the back of Keith’s cloak, maintaining as much distance as he can between them. He hopes the loud thrum of the engine masks the sound of his sniffling as he scrubs at his cheeks.

Keith drops Lance off at the bar where they met as instructed. For a moment, they both just look at each other, not saying anything. Then Keith offers Lance a small, sad smile, his eyes too bright under his hood, and he’s off, rounding out of sight, and, Lance is certain, out of his life. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Lance sneaks back into the castle just as the sun is peaking above the horizon, and buries himself under the blankets, trying not to picture a life in which he could’ve kissed Keith.

* * *

Lance is nudged awake what feels like mere ticks later and he glares blearily at the sheets as royal attendants pour into the room. Preparations for the ceremony pass by in a blur and all Lance registers are the attendants bemoaning the state of his appearance. His eyes feel puffy and his palms feel kind of sore from the events of last night. The silver lining in all of this is that he doesn’t have to worry about crying again; he’s just too exhausted.

He lets the attendants poke and prod at him as they make him resemble something close to presentable, his mind drifting back to the arena, to the field with Keith. His chest squeezes at the memories and he holds them close, tries to find strength in them even as he’s herded out of the room and into the garden where the bonding ceremony is about to take place.

A thick, white veil with blue accents is draped over his face as he’s ushered out into the garden. He can barely see through it and an attendant has to guide him to his position on a dais. He can’t see the faces of the guests in attendance, but he can hear their muted murmurs over the tinkle of music. Idly, he wonders what the Crown Prince is like. He’s heard the whispers amongst the nobility: how the crown prince is the very definition of royalty, how he embodies both grace and dignity, and how his beauty is unmatched in the universe, with his flowing silver hair and his bright yellow eyes.

A hush falls over the crowd and Lance straightens. This is it, he thinks. His hands fists themselves at his sides. He pushes all thoughts of Keith to the back of his mind and, as his veil is lifted in tandem with the crown prince’s, he blinks in the sudden light and peers down at the face of—

“ _Keith_?” He chokes out. And then he pinches himself, because this couldn’t be happening.

Keith looks equally shocked, his mouth hanging open in a decidedly un-princely manner. “Lance?” He says, but it comes out as more of a strangled squeak. 

They’re yanked from their disbelief by the sounds swords being drawn as those gathered dissolve into an angry mob.

“That’s not the Crown Prince of Galra!” An Altean courtier cries in fury.

“And that isn’t the Altean Princess!” A member of the Galra empire yells back.

Lance doesn’t get it — until he does. All his life Lance has been groomed to be one half of a bridge between two alien races, and it would seem that Keith’s the same, both of them scapegoats for actual royalty. In Lance case, he’s a — mostly — willing party, but it doesn’t change the fact that he wasn’t afforded a choice. And suddenly, Keith’s words from the previous night are thrown against the backdrop of the present into startling clarity.

It’s almost funny how, now that he knows it’s Keith he was promised to and doesn’t quite mind the whole ceremony anymore, the universe decides to slam the breaks on the whole thing.

Alteans and Galra clash viciously in the centre of the garden, the sights and sounds disorienting. Lance feels a hand steady him as the dais is knocked over and they go sprawling onto the ground. He’s quick to his feet though, scanning the crowd for Allura, and he catches sight of her and Shay being escorted by the Altean royal guard back into the castle.

She meets his gaze across the garden, fights against the guards’ iron grip. She manages to throw them off and starts towards Lance, but another swarm of royal guards blocks her path. They grapple with her, practically dragging her back to safety.

“Lance!” She yells, struggling.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he calls back to her. He hears a scream, and then there’s a sword careening down towards him. Unarmed but far from defenceless, he ducks to the side of the swing and shoves hard at the assailant’s arm. The blade goes clattering across the stones.

The assailant is on him in an instant, relentless as they wraps their hands around Lance’s throat. Lance bucks, attempting to throw his assailant off, but they’re much bigger than him. He tries to claw at their eyes, but their helmet remains firmly in place.

And then the pressure is off his windpipe, and he gulps in mouthfuls of air, eyeing the sword protruding from his assailant’s chest with wide eyes. Keith is suddenly at his side, offering him a hand like he did the night before in the arena, and all Lance can do is blink at him.

Keith thrusts a sword into his palms. “Do you fight as well with a sword as you do with your rifle?”

That snaps Lance out of his daze. “Of course,” he sniffs, and proves his point by impaling a Galra soldier swinging wildly at Keith’s head.

Together, they hack and parry their way into the cover of an alcove, partially hidden by a thick tangle of opalescent creepers. The creepers seem to respond to their presence, crowding more fully over the opening of the alcove. Just beyond the foliage, the sounds of battle rage on.

Lance’s heart races in his chest, an erratic rhythm that has him jittery and on edge. He hears a faint ringing from the roar of blood pumping in his ears.

“What do we do, Keith?” He whispers.

“I don’t know.” Keith sounds as lost as he feels. They’re pressed up against each other in the cramped space, sweat-soaked and spattered in blood, and there’s something equal parts wild and scared in Keith’s eyes that Lance is sure reflects his own gaze.

“I don’t know,” Keith repeats, his voice more firm this time. He reaches out with the hand not wrapped around a sword and threads his fingers through Lance’s. “But whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Together…okay?”

And there’s that uncertainty again, lingering in that one word. But there’s also so much possibility in that one word:

 _Together_.

Despite the uncertainty, despite the chaos raging all around them, Lance finds strength in that word, in Keith's hand sticky and warm in his. His mother’s words echo in his head: _sometimes people find what they’re looking for in places they never thought to look for it_.

He hadn’t even been looking, resigned to his fate, but the universe works in mysterious ways that Lance cannot even begin to comprehend, and it’s provided him with something that was once taken away from him, something so incredibly precious: a choice.

And maybe he’s making a mistake, and maybe the choice he makes today will come back to haunt him in the days to come — assuming they make it out alive — but right now Keith has his back and he has Keith’s and really, the choice is a simple one:

He chooses Keith.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/neiljortsens)   
>  [tumblr](http://jortsens.tumblr.com/)


End file.
